CHAPTER FOURTEEN
She descended the stairs like a whisper, resembling a ghost in the pale nightgown, silver hair, and even paler face. They floorboards tacitly understood and were silent in their usual wails. She inhaled deeply; feeling as though the entire world had suddenly withdrew its complete source of air supply. She could not feel the vial she gripped so tightly in her hand.
She soon stood before him. In the darkness that enclosed the warehouse like a shroud, he had not noticed her. He straightened to attention, struggling to hold the pistol straight before him. His great belly shook under the tattered brown collar shirt that was too small and sweat on his brow caught the moonlight, shimmering. "Who, who's there?" his frightened voice came, barely even a hoarse whisper.
She took a step forward into a patch of starlight that invaded a window and splashed into the hallway. The flame of the candle she held wavered erratically. The light of it caused a great contrast of dark shadows on her otherwise pallor face. He mistook her for a ghost before she spoke to him; he cocked the weapon in panic. "It's only me, Hal."
He elicited an ostentatious sigh, allowing the pistol to fall lax to his side. He brought a forearm to his brown, wiping way the copious amount of perspiration. "Jesus Christ, Angel, I'se thought you were a fuckin ghost."
She did not reply. Her gaze seemed to be focused on the closed door behind him. A cold wave of fear crept up his backbone and he looked over his shoulder quickly to see if the prisoner was in the doorway or something. When he saw it wasn't so (door locked, just as Oliver Haddox had done so himself that evening,) he released a deep exhalation and cocked his head around once more. He yelped once more when he saw that Angel had moved closer to him. And now more than ever she truly did resemble an apparition.
"For Christ sake, Angel, you're going to give me a heart attack pulling that shit. You know I didn't want this job—I get jitters just being in a dark room—but no one else wanted it. So Oliver made us pull straws. I got the short one, but I think the others pulled something over my head. I think I was hood-"
"Then what, Hal, you want my fucking job tomorrow?" The utter and pure state of the rage that had manifested itself on her countenance in a matter of moments was stunning. He fumbled backwards, until his thick back hit the locked door and he could move no further. He instinctively shut his eyes so he would not have to witness that pale face contorted and those eyes just burning into him—into his soul.
He began to stammer incoherently, fear overwhelming him, before she interrupted in a toneless voice, "I want to see him, Hal."
He stopped and opened his eyes. Her face was just as vacant as her voice. His jaw dropped and he locked her gaze. "Angel, I...I don't know. You know what Oliver said, you know what your brother said: No one is to go and see him. You may be his sister, Ang, put I can't just break the laws for you, no can-"
He halted when she had fluidly reached under the skirt of her nightgown and exposed her gleaming revolver. She pushed it to his face and twisted it rhythmically from side to side, allowing it to bathe in the moonlight. "Now, you see this, Hal?" she snarled.
"Yah...yes," he stammered, feeling as though his bladder was going to let go. He didn't like being so close to a weapon that had such a reputation, like the best whore in town.
"What does it do?" She held the weapon vertically, inches from his face.
"It...it kills people." He cursed the door for not being unlocked. He was trapped.
"Exactly," she replied, her voice indistinct, yet dark eyes flashing. "That's why I need to get to Conlon. Since I have shoot him tomorrow, I have to practice my good aim, or else-" With a practiced hand she leveled the revolver with Halloran's skull, cocked the trigger, and crushed it against his forehead. "—I wouldn't want an innocent bystander to have a bullet blow their fucking brains out, now would I?"
Hal Halloran could only allow for his fat chin to fall open and his bladder to burst. He did not even feel the hot urine rushing down the insides of his trousers, straining them in its path. He collapsed to the floor on a heap.
She regarded him with a raised brow and lowered the weapon, brushing past him. The fowl, coppery smell of urine filling her nostrils. She stepped to the thick door, raising the rusted latch and forcing it open as she was assaulted with squeals of hinges needing oiled. A thick, musty darkness loomed in front of her as she gazed down from the platform.
He's down there, he mind accused. You put him down there. Put him down there on the brink of death. Why do you not just do the favor now and kill him and spare him the humiliation of tomorrow?
Inhaling deeply, she raised the candle stick high as to penetrate the solid mass of shadows. Her grasp tightened about the vial in her hand so that she had to force herself to relent or else if would have cracked. She began to descend.
The stairs were not so kindly to her, as they announced her appearance with great flourish and procession. She knew he was aware of her appearance before her bare feet even touched the cold of the concrete ground.
A rustling occurred somewhere within the swirling shadows and the metallic clink of metal reverberated from somewhere. Her eyes began to dimly adjust to the darkness.
"Who...who's there?" the weakened voice came. His voice was cracked, parched, not above a whisper. It caused her heart to shatter into a thousand pieces.
As she drew closer, she could see his outline and the thick, black patches that surrounded the floor and walls around him. Before she could contain her emotions, she choked back a sob and ran to him, her hands growing lax and the vial tumbling carelessly to the ground.
She stumbled and skidded on a substance wet in viscosity and fell to her hands and knees beside him. She bathed in the substance as she frantically placed his face within her hand. "What is this? What is this? What in the name of Christ did they do to you?"
His cold, lifeless eyes met hers. In response, he made a hocking sound deep in his mouth and spat. The phlegm was laced with black blood. Teeth came out with the mixture.
"Back so soon, Haddox? Come to greet me with sympathies? Oh, they took it that they didn't like me that much after you left this afternoon," he narrated in a beaten voice with a hint of mockery. She dipped her fingers in the liquid and brought them to the flame. "No, they took it they didn't like me much at all." The liquid was a dark black-red. Just as when Oliver had slain her mother and father. His hands. His hands. His hands had been covered, bathed, soaked in—
Her voice rose to a near shriek. "What did they do to you? What in the blue fuck did they do to you? Blood! Blood everywhere!"
"Lower your voice, Haddox. You don't want your brother to find out that you are visiting the prisoner, do you? How did you get past the diligent guard that was posted? I thought the son of a bitch had orders no one could see me," he hissed, bucking his head in a jerky motion.
A hush fell across Angel and the tears immediately came to her eyes. "What did they do? What did they do? Where did they hurt you?"
The bright light of the candle flame caught his azure eyes, yet they retained no glimmer. They were the eyes of a man who possessed the fatalistic knowledge that his life was to end soon, the seconds slipping through his fingers like the sands of time. He saw that she had begun frantically ripping apart her dressing gown in a flurry to wrap the fabric around his wounds. "Save yourself, Haddox," he growled with a bitter rage. "Night was pretty fucking thorough. There's not enough material to heal my wounds now."
She halted and slowly raised her eyes. He had released a great sigh and bowed his once proud head, his soiled dirty-blonde hair caked with blood falling across his brow. The red bandanna was tied cruelly around his head, mockingly resembling a crown of thorns. What little of a shirt he had worn was now extinct, as his thin, lithe chest showed the markings of numerous beatings by the hands of Nero Night while Oliver Haddox looked on in blood-lust. She allowed the candle light to survey his body. The deep gash lacerations formed malicious zigzags across his insipid skin. They hooked onto the blooming bruises like stems of great purple and ebony flowers in their prime.
She began to weep. She placed a hand to her eyes and wept uncontrollably. She then felt the monstrous lashing to her chin. The force drove her to topple to her side and stifle her sobs. She cupped a hand to her assaulted part and regarded him wildly. His eyes smoldered through the deep bruising and blood and wisps of matted hair. They blazed with unbridled fury.
"Why did you do that? Why?" she howled like an injured animal, not knowing whether more out of agony or an internal ache.
He thrust his bare feet out before her, his carriage erecting against the pillar he was bound to. His eyes burned into her soul. "Why do you cry for me, Angel Haddox, why?"
Why. The question wrest such total and utter control of her entire psyche that she disregarded the pain, all the miserable pain. She regarded him, her red-rimmed eyes wide. "Why?" she echoed softly. "Why?" she repeated with more ardor as she understood the query.
His majestic face contorted into rage and he brutally kicked the metal mug that held his water forcefully away. His eyes entirely blazed; the fire was ignited. "Why? Why the fuck do you cry for me? You are Angel Haddox and I am Spot Conlon. I am your mortal enemy. You who came to Brooklyn to slay how goddamned many of my innocent newsies. You who gleefully shed blood without a whim or a care in the world-"
The agonizing pain began in her belly and spew up her throat like molten lava from a volcano. "What? What do you mean?" her sobs rang. She crawled towards him, the blood soaking through her night gown and violating the pristine nature of the whiteness.
He brutally kicked her away. He writhed against the pillar, the rope that bound his wrists digging into the soft flesh and drawing more blood. "You weep for yourself. You weep for your immortal soul. You don't give a single damn for any other creature on this Earth but yourself. You weep because you must kill me tomorrow and that would fuck your chances with Jesus, it really would, wouldn't it? You weep because I am a martyr for your own soul and you are the one to pull the goddamned trigger. So save me your tears and your sympathies. They are nothing more than tears for your own fucked-up life!"
Angel recoiled, paralyzed as though water had been induced in her veins, turning crystalline. Yet the ice soon turned as a blazing, white-hot fury swept over her, blinding her vision. She released a scream of unadulterated hatred as she brandished her violent mistress and aligned it point blank with his brow. One eye squeezed tightly and aimed on her target, her arms quivered fantastically. Her heart smoldered. She cocked the trigger. "You seem to have all bets on the idea that I give some sort of fuck about you. So tell me, what the hell makes you different from all of your boys—except you won't end up in the river of course."
With that, his entire countenance brightened. His eyes gleaming like chips of glass, the proud, arrogant smirk that alighted upon those beautiful lips caused her to wonder at awe as he resembled the Fearless Leader of Brooklyn in all his glory. "What, Angel of Death? Can't pull the trigger? Need more time?"
There is still time Helena Haddox there is still time to save your soul-
There is still more time there is still more time—
There is not anymore time left.
She broke, gazing into those abhorrently arrogant eyes. They emblazoned into her soul, yet she could sense something, something else—fear, fear behind those orbs.
"No there is not!" she screamed, falling to her hands and knees. Tears blurring her vision, sobs raking her, and her flaxen hair wild, she crawled through the thick, congealing blood to behind the pillar where his wrists were bound. Producing her switchblade, she tightly grasped his wrists and savagely sawed through the thinning rope. Cutting him free, she threw his hands down and came around front. He was flexing his fingers, in disbelief that he had been set free. "Here!" she shrieked, thrusting the revolver into his battered hands. He raised his head to catch her utterly insane gaze. "Here! Take it! Do it! Take your revenge for Brooklyn!"
Taking the base of the weapon, she brought it to the direct center of her forehead. She cocked the trigger. "Do it! Pull the trigger, goddamnit! Fucking kill me! You have me in your hands so do it! Prove once and for all you are the Fearless Leader of Brooklyn."
His exquisite, sliced lips formed a perfect O as he regarded her with utter incredulity, his arms taunt in front of him and the revolver settled point blank at her head. She did not realize it, but his arms trembled badly.
"Do it!" she screamed hysterically, her eyes alight and scared. "Do it now! Kill me! Blow my brains out! Take your vengeance for Brooklyn and then return to them! You have won!" The tears then consumed her entire body and she felt impossibly tired, exhausted. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, brow still resting against the barrel. Her golden hair fell across the weapon. "Please," the whisper escaped in a raw voice, "please, Jonathan Conlon, if you have any mercy in your soul, please shoot me. There is nothing left on this Earth for me. I have said my final rights. Please take pity on my soul."
I watch as bombs hit the ground—
She felt the cold barrel being relieved from her sweaty forehead. She did not open her eyes. "Oh, God, Angel," she heard him whisper in his broken voice, "I can't shoot you."
To my left-
She opened her eyes. They stared directly into his azure ones. They were filled with unshed tears. As bright as a benediction sky before the rain. As blue as a sea before the raging storm. He had not killed her. He could not kill her.
To my right-
"Why?" she asked in a low voice void of emotion. "Why did you not do it?"
I look around for my love—
The diamonds opened and he regarded his hands. He rubbed them together and allowed the tips of his fingers to lightly trace the deep gashes that the rope binding had created. The bandanna had loosened and had fallen over one eye. He did not seem to notice. He winced in pain and his eyes flickered to hers. "I have been involved in many girls. But they have never gotten me in this much trouble."
He showed no sign of amusement at his remark.
For he is fighting—
"I may be called the Fearless Leader of Brooklyn, but I have never taken a human life unless it was the ultimate decision. Plenty of my boys would have loved to have your head brought to me on a platter before this; you see even two of them tried on the night we were supposed to have the war-council. They tried without success and with insubordination. I knew who you were. I knew who you were when you crashed my poker party dressed as a whore. I'd wager while you straddled me you were contemplating on slitting my neck; don't think it hadn't crossed my mind. But I kissed you, and all fucking reason went flying out the door. I hated and loathed you and wanted to murder you. But I felt something...I felt, myself, and I could finally explain myself..."
In this war—
"And I knew what kind of fucking creature you were, but I honestly didn't think myself much better. I know I am nothing. I am an illiterate kid who fucked a bunch of dames and ran a dirty newsie operation. You think I like what I have become? You think I like looking towards a future in the slammer?"
Because I can see it. I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in your eyes today. I saw fear in your eyes. You're not one of them. You want more. But your scared shitless. Scared shitless. You want to die in this life you created for yourself, you don't know who the hell you've become. But you don't die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past, that the future will be brighter—
I walk along the injured—
"There is nothing in this fucking life for us. Absolutely nothing. That's why we have to make time. We have to make time to save our souls. To have the life we always wanted in the next one."
But I don't see him—
"Down here, I have thought a lot. I never had time. I had time, but I never thought. And now that I have it, I thought. I said before I am not afraid of death and I still hold true to that this very minute. That's something I would never give up. I would never surrender my pride. I am proud of what I have made Brooklyn into and I will be loyal to her until my very last breath. Just like a witch at the stake, if Oliver were to say, 'Recant your sins, heretic!' I would never speak ill of Brooklyn, ever. Brooklyn is my life, my heart, and my soul. If I need to die for her, then I need to die for her."
And the hope inside me brightens—
"Why don't you just leave? You are free. He can't get you. You have all you want. Go."
He is alive—
He released a dry laugh and brought his knees to his chest. He ran a bloody hand through his hair, the bandanna falling unfettered beside him. "Leave? What good would me leaving do? I go to Brooklyn and tomorrow Oliver finds me missing? He invades Brooklyn looking for me and kills every last one of my boys? I could never let anyone destroy my brothers, my family. And I would have to deal with that knowledge every day for the rest of my life, on the run and out of New York."
And well—
"I am not afraid to die, Angel. I am not afraid to die because I have pride and honor in something that I created and that I love. But you. You are afraid to die. But you want to. There is nothing here on earth. You honestly think there is more to life. That you can be a filthy fucking murder and wake up married to Mayor Van Wyck's son. Oh, it's the dream to start out a bummer and make something of yourself, but that is bullshit penned by artists. Bummers like us can't get nowhere. That's why I took the time. And I saved my soul because I know it's the only chance I have left to make something of myself. I have a clean conscience and I have not a fear in the world of dying."
I think-
"I saw you though," she said, "When Oliver finally got you. You were on the Brooklyn Bridge in the pouring rain ready to make the jump. And you say you are not afraid of death?"
But I am wrong—
"I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of you."
Deadly wrong—
"Of me?"
For I see him laying there right in front of me—
"Yes. I love you and I hate you and it is a dangerous thing. I've hated you since you and your assassin partner first took the life of my newsie. But I have loved you ever since I've kissed you. I hate the Angel of Death. I hate Oliver Haddox's sister. But I know there is something more. I know you hate what the world made you want something more in life. And that I love."
I run to him—
He was beautiful. So exquisitely beautiful. With the words, sanity eluded her, and although she was familiar with her physical self, she no longer knew of what dwelled inside her mind. She pulled her body over to his. The blood ate at her white nightgown hungrily. Hot tears streamed down her face and she fell into him. She could not think, could not breathe, could not move. She loathed him and hated him, reviled and despised him. Yet she worshiped and adored him, loved and glorified him. He was her enemy, her nemesis, her savior and redeemer. There was nothing more to say. "O, how can I do this tomorrow?"
And touch his pale face—
A faint smile alighted upon his battered lips and he cupped her chin with his fingers warm with blood and tilted her head upwards. "Do you love me?"
And cold lips—
"Yes," she said, losing for the final time any sense of reason, any sense of loyalties, and any sense of the world. Her chest constricted agonizingly in her chest and she could not breathe. "With my entire heart and soul. I cannot lose you. I cannot lose you-" Doing the only thing that could halt the painful hurt in her searing heart, she brutally pressed her lips to his, the taste of coppery blood mixing with the salt of the tears to for a unique elixir. She drank him, giving herself over to him utterly and completely. Her mouth felt the deep crevices in his cracked, sharp lips; felt the warm sensation of the liquid.
Her heart leapt into her mouth and her mind disintegrated.
Tears fall down my cheeks—
He broke away, holding her close in the bitter dark. He held her shaking body in the cold dark. "All that you love is never lost." His words entered her ear like a warm breeze.
And see he is no longer with me—
Inspiration suddenly struck her. "Wait," she cried, shaking herself from him and fumbling in the shadows for the vial, the precious vial she had wholly forgotten of. She returned, a handkerchief grasp tightly in her fist. She sank beside him.
And in another world without me—
He placed his hands around the wrists of her outstretched hands and the object that she held in her palms. The grip became tighter.
"You're shaking," he said quietly, his eyes to the object displayed to him.
She choked back a sob. She could see him studying it intently, though her eyes needn't waver from his beautiful face for she had gazed intently at the object many times before: the glass vial with the rounded body and slim neck that was covered by the white handkerchief.
"Flynn gave it to me," she whispered, her voice wavering erratically due to the tears. "If we could never complete a mission and had our backs to the wall..."
His piercing eyes immediately flickered up to hers. "You can't."
Her body had become so numb that she could not even feel the smoldering tears that slid liberally down her cheeks. "I can and I will because you are my soul, Jonathan Conlon."
I cry for him—
"I have to," she sobbed. "You have to. We have to. I want to be with you. I can't tomorrow-"
For our love—
Fury crossed his exquisite face as he expertly snatched up the vial and flung it across the basement, where it landed in the thick shadows with a slight shattering.
Her eyes alight, absolute disbelief coursed through her veins at his actions. Yet she could not speak, could not utter a word; she found her self inexplicably mute. She knew he was going to die tomorrow by her hand. Killing the one she loved. Murdered by the one he loved. She knew he had ready and prepared his soul for tomorrow and nothing would persuade him otherwise.
And for the war—
It was then she heard the voice. "Halloran? What the hell happened to Halloran? Hello? Hello? Is anybody down there?"
Flynn's voice.
Her panic stricken eyes fell to him, yet he only gazed straight forward into the dark, contentment etched onto his travestied face.
For whoever said all is fair in love in war—
The stairs echoed and wailed under the weight of the footsteps.
Angel reached for her revolver.
Flynn's golden visage appeared, highlighted by a candle.
She cocked it.
He dropped the wick in complete and utter shock.
And pointed.
Darkness engulfed him.
"Angel? Angel is that you? What in the blue fuck are you doing down here? And what the hell happened to Halloran? You know even you aren't supposed to be down here. If Oliver finds you and he will kill you."
There was the sound of a flint being struck, and Flynn's candle roared to life once more.
"Angel," he said, his green eyes reflecting light and glimmering. "I told you to get the hell up. I don't want to get caught down here by Oliver. And what the hell you doing down here with Conlon? Get the hell up and come on. Why do you have that thing pointed at me?"
She was rising to her feet as she felt his warm breath flutter into her ear. She closed her eyes and savored it, feeling the first prick of tears. "You know what you have to do. I am ready. But I know you will do the right thing. There still is still time. I love you, Helena Haddox."
She felt him secretly place the warm, metal object in her palm. The metal object on the chain. His key. She stifled a sob.
Has never experienced love and war—
She rose, stained with blood, cheeks wet, yet erect and proud. She walked to Flynn. He regarded her incredulously, and then gazed over her shoulder.
"Hey, what the fuck you looking at, Brooklyn?" He started for his revolver at his side. "Want me to give you a little head start on tomorrow?"
He halted when he felt the barrel of the revolver against his skull. "Flynn," she said tonelessly, colorlessly, below a whisper. "Put your fucking gun down or I will blow your brains out."
Flynn Finesse's brain could not comprehend his assassin-partner's words. In all their years together she had never spoken out of turn to him. He turned to retort, yet in the candle light found her ascending the stairs like a whisper. And then she was gone.
He glanced at Conlon and then blew out the flame.
For love and war are never fair.